


The Dawning

by Dalzo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Light Smut, Lots of Angst, don't hurt them D&D, holy shit we're canon, lots of feels, mix of book/show verse, post S8/E2, v wishful stuff here (but i can dream in fanfic)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-23 23:54:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18559699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dalzo/pseuds/Dalzo
Summary: Perhaps it was a mistake, on her part — to come to his forge, to come onto him, to come undone under his touch. Somehow, in the moment, Gendry had forged himself into her iron heart. At the first kiss, maybe, or the way he uttered her name before that.





	The Dawning

**Author's Note:**

> bishes, we be fuckin canon! im in my feels, excuse the angst.

There's something about the way he sleeps so soundlessly beside her in the forge, furs draped over their bare bodies — warm, even with the winter winds that swirl in the night. It reminds her of a simpler time; a journey of new-recruits heading to the _Nights Watch,_ not that it was ever really simple.

 

He slept so soundlessly then too while she listed off her many names. Peaceful, he seemed then, and peaceful he seems now: lips, parted slightly; eyes flickering under the lids, an unknown dream playing within his mind; strong chest, bearing marks of soot, rising and falling.

 

Arya can only study him for so long until she's looking away — turning her back on him as his chest stills in her mind. Her heart jumps at the thought.

 

_How long has it been since the sound of her heart drowned every other noise? How long has it been since she felt this way?_

 

Perhaps it was a mistake, on her part — to come to his forge, to come onto him, to come undone under his touch. Somehow, in the moment, Gendry had forged himself into her iron heart. At the first kiss, maybe, or the way he uttered name before that. She doesn't know.

 

She only wishes it would leave, if only to help her lift up these furs and redress; to act like it meant nothing, merely a curiosity on her part before walking out to the battle, unafraid to die.

 

 _'Not today_ ', she'd say at death's door _. 'Not today_ ,', she thought at the image of him stiff and blue and cold. _'Not today',_ she pleads as her stomach hollows out, the feel of soft lips and prickly stubble at her shoulder.

 

His arm slides across her waist, fingertips settling over the scars tug her closer to his chest and _just like that,_ his warm touch is like that hot wielded knife that created those ugly scars.

 

"All those years ago," he murmurs hoarsely, lips moving against her skin. "when you asked me to come to Winterfell, this isn't what I had in mind."

 

She shifts, trying to dodge the heat of his body but to no avail, gazes meeting.

 

"And what _did_ you have in mind?"

 

"That I'd be serving your lord brother—"

 

"You _are_ serving my lord brother—"

 

"Your other brother wasn't a bastard." His eyes fall, landing on her lips. "And I wasn't the bastard of a King, then."

 

A frown works at her mouth, one she quickly tries to mask; a sudden urge to talk about that _other brother —_ how close she'd been to seeing them again; how much _damage_ that renowned wedding truly did to Arya Stark.

 

"Did that really change things?"

 

He leans down, ever so slightly, to capture her lips in a lingering kiss — long and slow, different from the others; deeper than the others. The hand at her waist slides up, brushing past her breasts to tilt her chin higher and caress her cheek to keep on kissing her. Arya fights to keep her eyes open — to not lose herself in this feeling.

 

It's a battle she doesn't win.

 

"I… I never felt good enough. I wasn't anything special — wasn't highborn, just a bastard blacksmith apprentice. Some would come in and make that clear — that I wasn't important, that I didn't matter. I'd arm them with steel and they'd be on their way." His nose nuzzles into her own. "I was taught not to look 'em in the eye — to treat them, like they were better than me, just because they were born _lucky._

"And then you came along — and you were just yourself, and all I'd been taught had been forgotten. Until you asked me to come serve your brother and I realised we'd never be the same again; to watch you grow as a woman and be married off to some Highborn prick."

 

She draws in a shaky breath as old words ring in her head.

 

_'You'd be m'lady.'_

 

"You _know_ I never cared about that—"

 

"But the world did. The world _does —_ it wasn't proper then."

 

"And it is now?" She asks fiercely. "You're still not a lord — just a _bastard_ of some dead drunk king with too many bastards to count. You still don’t have a title, still don't have any lands. So what changed?"

 

She tries to pull away before Gendry's hovering over her, trapping her in place. His jaw is clenched hard, teeth grinding, hands braced beside her head. _Ours is the fury,_ his father's house words echo in the thick tension. Blue eyes stare deeply into her own; reminding her of the colour to the sea on her voyage to Braavos; reminding her of the fear it felt to be so alone with no land in sight.

 

"Nothing," He admits, bitterness tinging his tone. "I'm still too lowborn for m'lady high."

 

"You wouldn't want me, anyways." Arya glances away, turning her head to gaze around the forge — wishing for the dead to sound off the horns to escape the invisible heavy weight, pressing down on her chest.

 

"No — no, I only just _fucked_ you because I don't want you—"

 

"Shut up." She snaps. _"stupid."_ it's a muttered defence, the confidence she once had shattered at the fear their joining brought. 

 

The pause is long, drawing out as they breathe softly into the night. Still, he doesn't move.

 

"Is that a command, Lady Stark?" He forces out — turning her blood hot, urging her arms around his neck to crush her mouth against his. She nips at his bottom lip, pulling at the soft flesh eliciting a hiss with his cock hardening against her thigh.

 

It's minutes later that she's clutching onto his back, groaning aloud as he sinks into her — the slight sting of their previous encounter pricking at her eyes, _but Gods,_ he feels so good; fills her so good.

 

 _"Seven Hells."_ his voice cracks into the crook of her neck before his lips suck marks into her skin, humming as their hips meet in long, deep slow thrusts.

 

He's kissing her everywhere, moaning into her flesh — Arya coming alight in his forge, burning from his calloused touch, wrapping her legs around his hips as they linger in the moment of such _pleasure._ She's muttering his name, over and over, and he's doing the same; the haze of their connecting bodies, strong and thick, blurring out everything else.

 

And when he kisses her as she peaks, swallowing her loud, unfiltered moan, there's a sudden wetness flowing from her eyes at _how much_ she doesn't want this to end. How much this _has_ to continue.

 

She's crying — how long has it been? Soundless tears, trailing down her cheeks as she clutches him closer, seed spilling inside her with a guttural groan. A moment later, and he's wiping at her tears; urging them away in his tight embrace.

 

How long Gendry holds her as fear grapples at her throat, she can't possibly know. All she wants is to stay in this bed; in this forge. To stay in Winterfell with Gendry and Jon and Sansa and Bran — to keep her family together and safe.

 

In the distance, a horn sounds and shatters that illusion. His hands tighten around her torso, impossibly so, forcing her to look him in the eye once more.

 

"Nothing changed — not really." He admits softly as the horns continue to blow. "Nothing _but_ the world ending. If we die, what does it matter if it's allowed or not?"

 

She bites her lip, falling back on the old habit the house of black and white _tried_ to chase away. "And if we don't die?" She asks timidly, daring to dream of a future that involved him; _her pack._ "If we survive, what then?"

 

"If we survive, I'll take you back here to my bed." _My featherbed,_ Arya remembers at Gendry's vow, forehead nudging her own. "If we survive, I'll be here to serve _m'lady._ And no one nor custom will take that away from us. _"_

 

The horns drown out as they meet with one last kiss — perhaps their last; _perhaps not._ All Arya knows is she's ready to fight for what's hers.

 

For her house and her home; for her family and her love.

**Author's Note:**

> chuck me a follow on twitter @dalzonii and on tumblr @reyloner, come scream about us being CANON!


End file.
